


Offerings

by convolutedConcussion



Series: Everything is Whitman and Nothing Hurts [6]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: And Fails Miserably, Author Attempts To Be Deep, Bad Fic, Introspection, M/M, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:53:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A thousand perfect men and women appear,<br/>Around each gathers a cluster of friends, and gay children and youths, with offerings.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Offerings

**Author's Note:**

> I usually add notes at the end but I thought this required a little explanation. I always viewed Charles as rather decadent, or at least with a penchant for such behaviour, though I always rather figured he would luxuriate in the minds of others, in their pleasures and, sometimes, in their pains. Of course he's a lush, we all know that, but I thought that maybe, because his powers were manifested so young, at least in the movies, he might find _people_ more to his taste than alcohol--
> 
> I have just made him sound like Hannibal Lecter, oh my _god._
> 
> Anyway, basically, this poem inspired a fanfiction to me but, unlike some of the others, it doesn't follow a logical line of thought. And for that I apologize but it also seemed close enough in my mind that I didn't want it going off on its own, I wanted to place it in this series.

The first was his nanny.

She was lovely, really lovely.  Her face was nothing but her _mind_ … he remembers it was like floating on a tranquil sea, riding wave after gentle wave of emotion.  She, unlike his mother, really seemed to care about him.  She cocooned him in warmth whenever she was around.

There were scores of minds between his first nanny and Raven—teachers and maids and servants, the cacophonous roar of the minds of the men his mother socialized with, people to attend to him—and he doesn’t remember every single one, but he recalls searching, hard, each and every one.  He didn’t know, then, that he was searching for the _good_ another mind could offer up to him, but he took something away from them nonetheless.  Long before he’d come to realize just how invasive that sort of thing really was, he read the minds around him effortlessly, rifled through them, plucked from them the sweetest fruits of experience.  It made for a very _old_ ten-year-old.

In Raven, he saw pain.  The pain of hunger and rejection, one with which he was unfamiliar and the other he knew well.  He saw fear.  He saw very little hope.  It had broken his heart and there was really no need to think hard on what to do with her.  When she understood that she had a home, finally, a real place to _belong_ , her mind was brighter than the sun and in that moment she was perfect.

As he grew up, he encountered thousands of people.  Men and women, made perfect by their hopes and dreams that radiated off of them.  They hoped, they dreamed the way only young people, lovely, cushioned young people could dream.  They dreamed of changing the world, some of them.  Others of luxury.  Others of gay parties, of marriage, of happiness.  Of food.  And upon these things, he thrived, because these things seemed offered up to him.  He rarely delved into minds but fed off the shallowest part of them.  School was wonderful to him, in that respect, for there was no shortage of new people.  He grew older, though, and those around him did as well.  His appreciation for others changed.  He saw the vapid concerns of his classmates with no less amusement but much less joy.  He matured.  He began to actually use his gift to _help_ people, which, though not necessarily _new_ to him, was novel enough that it gave him great happiness.  Of course, he was as human as any.  Sometimes selfish, sometimes frivolous, he at least never intentionally hurt anyone with his telepathy—though of course he did respond to a few thoughts out loud and had to erase a few memories as a result.

Moira was fantastic.  So driven, so intelligent.  Perhaps a touch naïve, but what kind of fault is _that_ , taken into consideration?  He felt almost sorry for her, having to work with all those men who clearly thought so lowly of a female CIA agent that one needn’t be a telepath to notice it.  He almost felt she was wasted there.  The agents and the officers around them were perpetually suspect of him and of Raven—they certainly didn’t _look_ CIA, of course, so he couldn’t blame them—but they had their own concerns and those soon drowned out their suspicion of the two strangers.  He could grow almost distracted by so many people thinking so loudly all about him.

The other telepath blocked him out immediately but just the _experience_ of meeting another—of course he _knew_ there must be others out there but to actual encounter one, it’s very exciting… if extremely frustrating.  He’d never felt so incapacitated.  He had felt suddenly very lonely, bereft of the contact he’d grown so used to.

And then—and _then_ , breaking through the haze left over by that other telepath—a presence so strong that he lost himself in it.  On the surface it’s pain, pain and anger, but deeper down there were other things.  Determination.  Self-reliance.  There was goodness and hope, buried miles beneath, where no one could touch.  It was, in many ways, the most exquisite mind he had ever touched and after all this man had been through, he couldn’t let _this_ be snuffed out.  He didn’t really realize how far that line of thought had gotten until he was tearing his way out of his coat and diving into the water.  Still quite lost in the swirling of this man’s mind, he fought through the water to reach him, to latch on to him.  To beg him let him save him.  To beg him not to kill both of them because he _knew_ he couldn’t let go of this man—physically as well as mentally—now that he had him.

He trod water, gasping, and asserted that Erik was not alone.  Then, more quietly that it was hard to tell if he was heard, that he’d never have to be alone again if he didn’t want.  But there was something, something akin to _hope_ so shining and beautiful in him, clashing around inside his own head.  And really that was the best thing that could have ever been given to him from another mind.

 ---

“Charles,” he croons gently against his ear.  He feels him nose against his ear as the taller man’s arms tighten around his waist.  “You’re thinking too much.  Care to share with the rest of the class?”

Languidly, the telepath shifts, rolling to face him and press a light kiss to his shoulder.  “I was just thinking,” he says softly, “About all the wonderful people I’ve touched.”  He kisses the spot just under Erik’s jaw and breathes deeply.  The other’s mind now is soft, surrounding him with something like amused affection.  He yawns, lulled to sleep on the steady push-pull of Erik’s thoughts.  There’s something niggling at him, though.

It’s not too long before he realizes it’s not _his_ something.  Burrowing his face in the crook of Erik’s neck, he mumbles, “ _Now_ who’s thinking too much?”  He feels the other’s big hand on the back of his head, fingers thread through his hair.  But there’s still that thing, that distant worry, buzzing around in there.  He sighs heavily.  He would like to explain it to Erik, that he’s really the brightest one, perfect, and lovely, and wonderful.  He would _like_ to, but the pathos of the thought makes him cringe, so instead he presses closer and projects a warmth, an affection that he really only feels for the other mutant, and a respect, and a slight momentary exasperation.  He does that and just _hopes_ it does the trick but it’s such a confused mix of feelings that he can barely make sense of it.

There’s a pause and he holds his breath.

Then, “Okay.”  Charles lifts his head and looks, wide-eyed, at Erik.  It was said so _neutrally_ he suddenly worried he’d revealed too much.  But then he’s kissing him, hard, and Charles laughs against his lips, delighted.  Erik smiles and it’s gentle, and soft, not that hard, fierce thing so often etched across his face.

It’s not very long after that that Charles is actually lulled to sleep, all anxiety, for now, forgot. 


End file.
